


Roman Holiday

by Mosca



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Bisexuality, Biting, Hotel Sex, Inspired by Twitter, M/M, Rimming, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 13:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6807292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mosca/pseuds/Mosca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every figure skater wants to be Audrey Hepburn, even Ryan Bradley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roman Holiday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [footnoterphone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/footnoterphone/gifts).



> Takes place after 2010 Worlds, based on a ~~fic prompt~~ [real tweet by Evan Bates.](http://twitter.com/Evan_Bates/status/11190075719) ([And also this one.](http://twitter.com/Evan_Bates/status/11358943849))
> 
> Thanks to Thistle for beta reading and Anna for perky cheerleading.
> 
> This fic contains mild pain play, a mention of a past sexual situation with consent issues, mentions of public sex, past Ryan Bradley/Meryl Davis, past Ryan/Johnny Weir UST, irresponsible drinking, being obnoxious on social media, and lots of Audrey Hepburn references.

Ryan came out of the bathroom with a white hand towel tied around his neck like a jaunty scarf. "I was thinking we could rent a Vespa."

Bates put the back of his hand to his forehead and twirled around. "I'm too young to die." He feigned a swoon.

"If there's a good place to die young, though, Rome is it," Ryan said.

"Easy for you to say." Bates singsonged: "You're ol-ld. Your career is oh-ver."

"I'm gonna drive a Vespa off a cli-iff." Were there cliffs in Rome? "Maybe I'll just make out with you in front of the Pope and get excommunicated. That's supposed to be as good as death."

Bates blinked at him. "Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I'm going to make out with you." He sat with his hands in his lap, and Ryan knew what that meant. "Not even in front of the Pope."

"Okay. Never mind." Ryan swung his arm forward like he was about to launch into a musical number on themes of dogged persistence. "Off to the Colosseum. You can ride the Vespa, but I get to be Audrey Hepburn."

"That," Bates said, "is totally unfair. The straight guy does not get to be Audrey. It's _in the rules._ "

Ryan shrugged and adjusted his towel-scarf. "We can both be Audrey."

"Better than spending an hour fighting over who has to be Gregory Peck." Bates got up off the bed and stretched his lanky arms. "Are you done in the bathroom?"

"Yeah," Ryan said, waiting by the bathroom door to intercept Bates. He'd been waiting for this moment since they'd gotten on the train down from Torino. It was shockingly difficult to hit on a guy who thought he was straight. One serious relationship with one girl and one joke in the kiss and cry, and all those years of messing around with guys after competitions were totally negated. But there wasn't really any such thing as bi in the skating world. _The word for that is closet case,_ Weir had said to him once, with a nasty snort. Weir believed unshakably that Ryan was going to get over his fascination with women one day and admit he just wanted dick.

It wasn't that simple, though. Ryan, like all figure skaters, wanted to be Audrey Hepburn, but he also wanted to fuck Audrey Hepburn. He kind of wanted to be Audrey Hepburn _while_ fucking Audrey Hepburn. It was hard to explain. The only person who'd really gotten it had been Meryl, and that might have just been because she was flattered by the comparison.

It was truly amazing how much people didn't get. For instance, Ryan was amazed that Bates had not figured out, the minute that Ryan had invited him along on this trip, that it was partially because Ryan didn't want to go alone but mostly because Ryan had always dreamed of having wild, passionate sex with a wide-eyed ingenue in Rome, preferably in a run-down hotel room with a cast-iron balcony overlooking a sleepy side street. Massi had understood that well enough to find him the room and tell him he was on his own finding a lover.

He'd found the lover just fine, except that Bates thought they were just friends. Maybe he wasn't Bates's type. That would suck. But maybe not, and he was sick of waiting for Bates to get a clue. So as Bates tried to pass into the bathroom, Ryan took him by the wrist, just hard enough to stop him from moving. Bates had big, expressive, liquid eyes, the kind that stopped Ryan in his tracks regardless of gender. He couldn't tell if they were registering disdain or amusement. Fear, maybe, trapped for four days in a hotel room with a sleazebag who just wanted to fuck him. If so, then Ryan was already that sleazebag. No way around it. "Are you sure you don't want to make out with me?"

Bates laughed softly. "When did I ever say that?"

And Ryan got his kiss. Bates turned out to be one of those guys who was soft-spoken and gentle until he got permission to put his hands on you, and then he was aggressive as hell. Maybe it was an athlete thing. Ryan found himself shoved up against the wall, Bates's chest and stomach pressed flat against his, Bates's tongue down his throat and hands on his butt, hungry and giddy. 

Bates paused for breath. "Charlie White is so dead to me."

"Is he taping pictures of Justin Bieber to the bottoms of your skates again?"

"Yes, and also he told me that you were just being nice by inviting me here and you aren't into me." Bates traced his fingers along Ryan's neck, pulling himself up tighter against Ryan's body, letting Ryan feel his erection against his leg. "I was supposed to smile and not take it seriously if you flirted with me, because apparently you do that all the time with guys just to be funny and you're never, ever trying to get them into bed."

"No, actually that's what he does." And it kind of pissed Ryan off. He retaliated by showering Bates's face with soft kisses. "But you can get back at him."

"In a thousand little ways." Bates gave Ryan a long, wet kiss and added, "Or you can just come to Ann Arbor and we can fuck on his bed."

"Nope. Four days in Rome. That's all we get." Ryan put it that way because he wasn't sure. He'd always had the excuse of putting skating ahead of his heart. Married to the ice. But now the ice was demanding a divorce, and he was going to have to find something new to fill up his life. He'd been thinking about moving to Michigan anyway, since he had so many friends there and could probably get enough work coaching to pay the rent. 

But he was getting ahead of himself. Even if they still liked each other after four days, it couldn't work. Bates was still an elite, eligible skater, and he'd probably stay that way through two more Olympic cycles. He was a part-time student, too, something that Ryan hadn't managed to stick with even when he'd been single, and terribly young, bound to change. It was enough stress without the extra pressure of keeping a boyfriend secret.

Or maybe it was Ryan who couldn't handle that. Having a boyfriend. Being one.

"So I guess I'd better hurry up," Bates said, stepping away from Ryan to take his clothes off. Back still against the wall, Ryan admired Bates's slender body as he revealed it. Guys with their clothes on didn't usually capture Ryan's attention, but naked boys were something to stare at. Bates had those great biceps that ice dancers developed, and his tight, curving pecs were smooth. His giant hard-on was a nice compliment, too. "Do you need help?" Bates said, looking over his shoulder with a twinkling smile. Without waiting for an answer, he came over to grope Ryan out of his clothes, ending with his hands on Ryan's butt. 

"You want my ass?" After Ryan said it, he realized what he'd offered. He was pleased that his mouth had gotten ahead of his brain. If he was going to have sex with a guy, he might as well take advantage of the special features.

"God, you're perfect. Yes."

Waiting to be touched turned Ryan on almost as much as being touched. He lay on the bed, dick swollen between his stomach and the stiff sheets. He felt Bates's lips first, wet and solid on the back of his neck. Bates fluttered his tongue in Ryan's ear. "I can't believe you're letting me do this."

"Letting you? Please." But, realizing that getting suddenly rammed full of cock wasn't the best plan, Ryan added, "Go easy, though, okay?"

Bates probably would have known better than to tear Ryan open, anyway. He seemed like a considerate guy. He was certainly together enough to have brought his own protection, although really, who went to Worlds and didn't bring a few condoms in case of miracles? Ryan actually knew the answer: the one time he'd stormed out of a hotel room with his shoes in his hands and his shirt balled under his arm. It was always the worst closet cases who wanted to surprise you with barebacking.

But Bates was slow and easy and generous. He fucked like an ice dancer, every muscle controlled, aware of Ryan's body. Amazing. Ryan loved the rush of pleasure that came with each thrust of Bates's dick and renewed just as it had begun to ebb. It gathered in his own dick. He let his body slide up and down the bed, making friction. The bed creaked their rhythm. It was enough to make him come, gasping loudly, sticky against the sheets, and to lie, blissed-out and still, for a few long, glorious minutes more while Bates finished inside him, in a crescendo of throaty moans that made Ryan laugh. They were so beautiful, so abandoned.

Ryan stayed on his stomach, literally glued to the bed, until Bates came back for him with a cuddle and a kiss. "Oh," Bates said, rolling Ryan over. "You're done."

"It happens sometimes." Ryan felt like he should list it on his resume under special skills. _Can do a backflip, speak French poorly, and come when you fuck me._

"So I guess I should go take a shower if we're going to do any sightseeing," Bates said, not moving from Ryan's side, like he was looking for permission to spend the day in bed.

But Ryan was in Rome to see stuff, not just to play out his romantic-comedy fantasies. "I should, too, _now._ " He mimed dusting himself off.

They went together. The shower head was the low-pressure hand-held kind on a too-short silver cord of pipe, the kind Ryan had gotten resigned to being stuck with when traveling in Europe. The hot water tank was never big enough, and he could never figure out how to rinse his hair without crouching underneath the weak spray. The solution, it turned out, was to bring a friend. Although that also meant chasing each other around, getting water everywhere, until Bates caught Ryan in a kiss. Ryan dropped the shower head, and they kissed with the water pooling around their feet until they began to shiver. And then had to rinse off hurriedly and jerk each other off because the water had gotten cold.

They went to the Colosseum and the Pantheon in the afternoon, taking pictures of themselves from every angle and coming up with obnoxious unrelated captions for Facebook: "Ryan wrestles a Bengal tiger!" "Evan's first skydive!" "Together, Ryan and Evan contemplate the infinite." For the last one, they found a middle-aged Japanese couple to photograph them with their arms around each other's shoulders and the ruins looming like quiet, watchful gods in the background. Over dinner, they discussed going out somewhere, but the proposition never made it out of debate, and they wound up going back to their hotel to have more sex.

Tuesday, they walked all over the city, up and down hills and ancient steep stairs. Ryan's foot was killing him the entire time, but he drowned it out with Advil. He wasn't going to miss the Spanish Steps for a stress fracture any more than he would have missed Worlds. But he bowed out like an old man when Bates wanted to race him through the Piazza Navona trailing a scarf behind him. Instead, he sat on a stone bench across from the Fontana del Nettuno. "Don't you just want to take your shoes off and jump in?" Bates said, plopping down next to him, face red with excitement.

"Yeah, but I don't want to _actually_ get arrested."

They sat together for a while watching the water run up and over the old stone. Bates patted Ryan's back a few times, then rested his head on Ryan's shoulder. Friends were more affectionate in Italy than in America, and the few tourists strolling by didn't bat an eye. Ryan was the only one who felt discomfited: he didn't know what Bates meant by it. _Thank you for taking me here_ or _Have you reconsidered breaking this off after a four day fling?_ or more likely just, _I like you._

Ryan had to ruin the moment so he could stop thinking about it. "Is it just me, or does the fountain down there look like a giant cock?" Bates looked up, furrowed his brow like a serious art critic, and then cracked up laughing. They took their own picture in front of it, stretching their arms out in front of them. _Three giant dicks in the Piazza Navona._

Inspired, they strolled the Piazza until they found a public restroom and blew each other in one of the stalls.

Ryan admitted his foot was too sore for more walking, especially if it involved stairs, so they wasted their late afternoon and early evening in a café, drinking Barolo and discussing their friends in their absence. He watched the Roman girls go by in their tight jeans and high heels, their graceful necks and round, swaying hips. Women knocked him senseless. They caught his eyes and filled his fantasies. But guys were fun in bed, and their minds were simpler to understand. No matter who he was with, he was sacrificing something, unless he could manage to have a boyfriend and a girlfriend at the same time, which would be two more relationships than he had ever proven himself capable of handling.

"Are you okay?" Bates said after Ryan had been quiet for too long.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

Ryan expected Bates to pry, but he just said, "Oh, no problem. Me too." Ryan liked that a lot. Liked _him._ And wondered what he was thinking about, although now he would sound like a total shit if he asked. 

So he went big, maybe because he was a little drunk. Maybe because he meant it. "Do you think I could get coaching hours in Ann Arbor?"

Bates blinked at him, sipping his wine. 

"It's just one option I've been thinking about. One of several."

"Then yeah," Bates said smoothly, like he was surprised to be holding it together. "You're a national medalist, they're trying to expand their singles program, so yeah. You might do even better in Bloomfield Hills, though."

"Thanks, I mean, I wouldn't want to move somewhere I couldn't get a job." Ryan looked into his glass. People in books always found answers in wine, but Ryan's looked like something about to be drunk, about to be gone. "And you know. We'll see. But that helps."

"You know the weather's shit, though, right?" Bates said. "Like, 40 below wind chill."

"That's what inside is for," Ryan said, basking in the early-evening Mediterranean breeze.

He could do it, too, as long as there was someone in Michigan willing to take a chance on a guy who'd won his only national medal on a fluke, never placed higher than fifteenth at Worlds, and barely coached his best student to a pass on her novice test. Come to think of it, that was miles better than most people's resumes. Ryan always looked down on himself for not achieving everything he wanted to. He envied people who could reward themselves for any small accomplishment, go out to dinner to celebrate a one-dollar raise, throw a party just for getting assigned an international competition. As an athlete, you couldn't ever let that kind of thing be good enough.

That was why he had assumed, without considering it much, that Bates would be a four-day tourist fling. All the things that Bates was – funny and bright and cute, exuberant in bed – were worth celebrating, but they weren't enough.

They didn't fit with Ryan's plans, the ones he'd laid out with Tom when it had become clear that this Olympic season would be his final shot at greatness. He'd come back to Colorado Springs, coach full time, take the reins on some more challenging students, get more involved in the Broadmoor organization. Finish college. Meet the proverbial nice girl and have a stable, happy family that would erase his entire past.

The more Ryan thought about them, the more he hated his plans. He had all kinds of reasons for not making any decisions now: half a bottle of wine, the numb ache in his foot, the freshly-fucked hormones playing havoc with his judgment. But there was something really appealing about packing up his life for someplace new. Colorado felt like his safe bet, his fade into obscurity. It felt like just enough to get by.

And it wouldn't be that hard to pick up his life and take it to Michigan. Ryan could fit everything he owned into his car. He could transfer his credits to the University of Michigan, if they let him in, or Wayne State if they didn't. He'd heard the rent was rock-bottom up there, and there were a bunch of poor young artsy people moving in to take advantage of it. He'd be the most conservative one of them – a nice change after Colorado Springs, the church capital of the world. And he'd have a job waiting, and a guy. As much as Ryan didn't want to make this about Bates, he was sitting right across from him, eyes hazy with wine. It wouldn't be _just_ about a guy.

Bates drained his glass. Ryan was glad it was the last of the wine: Bates looked drunk enough to wobble in front of a speeding Vespa and get killed. "I was thinking maybe we could go to that club Jer was saying he liked," Bates said. "If you're up for it."

Any nightclub that Jeremy liked enough to recommend to others had to be bizarre in some way. It was probably full of balloons and bubbles and giant stuffed toys. Or Italian leather daddies. This meant, of course, that Ryan had to see what it was about.

They went back to the hotel for a quick change into their tightest jeans and cleanest shirts, but it was way too early for dancing, so they lay in bed together, wasting time. It was strange to be in the middle of a dirty European fling, naked and curled in the sheets, reading a book. Ryan couldn't remember doing this with anyone, come to think of it – not even Meryl, who was always in the middle of three or four difficult and boring tomes that she'd talk about enthusiastically while Ryan would nod and feel stupid. Bates was reading _Twilight_ ironically, sharing choice passages aloud in a wry, nasal voice.

Biting Bates on the neck seemed appropriate. As Ryan dug his teeth in, Bates's "Ow" turned into an "Mmm, that's good." 

Ryan squeezed Bates's nipple between his thumb and finger, digging his nail in a little. Bates moaned harder. "You like a little pain?" Ryan said, although it was more of an observation than a question.

"I'm a professional figure skater. All I know is pain." Bates paused to sigh as Ryan sunk his teeth back in, choosing another patch of neck to turn black and blue. "And sequins." It was cute how into Ryan he was, how he acted like every touch was a brand new exciting revelation. He was like a toy full of lights and noises and whirly things, and Ryan had to push every button to see what he'd do. Bates sighed when Ryan teased his nipples with his tongue and squealed, shivering, when Ryan blew cold air on them. He squirmed and growled when Ryan tugged little toothfuls of his tight stomach.

But he never begged. Never said he wanted to finish, to get to the main event. And Ryan wasn't going to touch his dick until he asked for it. Ryan thought penises looked silly, big and floppy, unsexy. He tried to avoid looking at them, in general. It wasn't that female anatomy was all that much more appealing, so much as the way guys would cruise him, judge him by his, ask him why he wasn't into it because he wasn't so fixated on theirs. No girl had ever expected him to tell her how beautiful her clitoris was.

Ryan liked other body parts. Mouths, nipples, butts, fingertips. Knees, for some reason. The things everyone had.

"Did I do something wrong?" Bates said.

Ryan realized he'd taken too long a pause. He shook his head. "What do you want me to do?" 

"What you were doing was good. Surprise me." Ryan kissed him for being sweet and patient, for having the most gentle and innocent face at the most improbable times. Bates kissed with his hands and with his hips. He was delicious.

Ryan sank his teeth into Bates's shoulder for another bruise. He tried to nudge Bates into rolling over, and Bates flopped exaggeratedly onto his stomach. Ryan skimmed his lips along the ridges of Bates's ribs. It would have been so easy to just fuck him, but it wouldn't have been much of a surprise. Bates had his ass in the air, waiting. Ryan tongued the dimple of muscle where Bates's cheeks met and then worked his way between them, licking the delicate skin. Bates had shaved himself smooth, and he smelled aggressively of soap. He didn't just want Ryan to look at his ass – he wanted Ryan to _want_ his ass. 

Ryan reached the dry, clean pucker of Bates's asshole and circled it with his tongue, fluttering just at the opening. "Oh, God," Bates gasped. Ryan dug his tongue in deeper, and Bates went wild under him. Ryan had to hold him down. Pinned, Bates struggled for words instead. "Please, yes, please, God, Ryan, just, please. Fuck me." 

Ryan had been thinking about rimming Bates until he came, since it was clear he could have made that happen. But a plea was what he'd been waiting for. He grabbed a condom and the almost-empty bottle of lube they'd stopped bothering to put away. Bates yielded to him easily, under control now. But he was a feisty bottom once Ryan got going, taking Ryan's weight into his hands and knees, making the bed bounce and squeak in time with his moans. Ryan loved the way guys felt from the inside, tight and solid, like he had to fight his way in. It took him a little longer to come with a guy, which meant he got more time to enjoy it. And so did Bates, who had been close to the edge to begin with and came with a mighty thrash, long before Ryan could catch up to him. Bates's body relaxed after he came, but he seemed to get noisier with the "Oh yeah, just like that," like he was cheering Ryan on. Ryan's own voice rang in his ears as he yanked Bates's butt up against his hips and came.

Bates rolled onto his back and tried to pull Ryan into an afterglow kiss. But Ryan was fumbling with the condom, and besides, "I just had my tongue up your ass, I'm not going to kiss you." Bates pouted at him until he went to the bathroom for a shot of Listerine.

"Mmm, cinna-mint," Bates said when he returned, devouring his mouth. Bates seemed to want infinite kisses. He kept pulling Ryan back in for more, not letting him up for air. "I only have one more day with you," Bates said when Ryan insisted on oxygen. "I want to spend it with my tongue in your mouth." When he put it that way, Ryan didn't want to turn him down.

Eventually, even Bates got tired of making out, and they decided to go out dancing after all. The taxi driver gave them a nasty look when they told him the address, and the bouncer at the door rolled his eyes when they showed him their American passports. Inside, it was a gay bar like any other: flashing rainbow lights, Lady Gaga remixes, a guy in a Speedo selling electric blue shots. Slim, greasy-haired Italian guys gyrating their waxed-smooth bodies together. Bates looked around, grinning like a tourist. 

Ryan realized he'd been in a lot of gay bars in a lot of countries. He took his shirt off, hoping he was sober enough to remember which chair he left it on, hoping he was drunk enough to forget. Someone squeezed his ass as he danced back over to Bates. "I'm moving to Michigan," he yelled.

"You're completely trashed and half-naked," Bates yelled back. And then kissed him.

He made it back to the hotel with his shirt, although he wouldn't remember how. He woke up with a headache and an alarm-clock reminder that they were supposed to go to the Vatican to see the Pope. And rent scooters, which in itself was enough of an incentive to fight through his hangover. Ryan procrastinated in bed, though, watching Bates get up and stretch. Ryan knew he needed to let go of the whole Michigan idea, let go of Bates. His shine would fade if Ryan tried to make a relationship out of it. Not that Ryan would really know. He'd bailed on Meryl as soon as he'd discovered three or four annoying things about her, shocked her with the admission that he wasn't happy and didn't want to work on it, had made the ice queen cry. When he would see her at receptions and official events, they'd always fake-hug, keeping their bodies from touching, and he'd feel their old spark of affection. He'd remember that she was beautiful and bright, and he shouldn't have given up so easily.

And Weir, with whom he'd always almost and never quite, calling it a matter of timing. Weir had been with Drew and then Ryan had been with Meryl and then they'd both been with their last chance at the Olympic team. And by then they'd closed all the doors, and they were friends. At Nats, up in the stands watching the junior men, Weir had said, "I totally would have been your boyfriend back then. If you'd just hurried the fuck up and figured yourself out. You could have said one nice thing about my ass or my eyes and you would have _had_ me."

In skating, Ryan had never done anything but stick with it. He'd fought, he'd worked, he'd _believed._ He wasn't the same way with people, and he didn't know why.

"Wake up, Princess Anya," Bates said, kissing Ryan's forehead. "We're going to miss a two-hour sermon in Latin."

They didn't have the nerve to make out in the square while the Pope spoke, but they did actually rent the scooters and tool around the Vatican like a couple of idiots. They ended up at the Sistine Chapel, waiting in line forever because everyone went to the Vatican on Wednesdays. Bates came up with ten hilarious things to do with the Pope's hat before Ryan shushed him, saying, "People here _do_ speak English." Bates gave him a cherry-lipped, long-lashed, innocent smile. There was something lovable about him, literally, something with the potential of being loved.

Inside the chapel, Ryan held his hand. That, you could get away with in Italy, especially if you were marveling at one of the greatest artistic achievements of mankind. Ryan liked to think Michelangelo would appreciate the gesture. He gazed up at the story of Creation, curly-haired and muscular, and said, "I'm moving to Michigan, and you can't stop me."

"That's what you told me last night," Bates said, squeezing his hand tighter, making it feel like a kiss.


End file.
